The Curse
by StarBabii
Summary: Only Gilbert knows what he felt for his dear King and even he can't easily describe it. GilbertxFritz


**A/N:**

**Title: The Curse**

**Summary: Only Gilbert knows what he felt for his dear King, and even he can't easily describe it. GilbertxFritz**

**Based loosely on The Curse by Josh Ritter, but this is not, I promise you, a song fic. I don't have the kind of patience to do that; I just go where the giant tomato car takes me. Anyways, it's a beautiful song, so go check it out.**

**Sorry for any historical mistakes, OOC-ness on either side (mostly on Fritz's, though), and bad plot. I didn't do much research, soooo…eh? Just pretend it's slightly AU, haha. I didn't know Old Fritz, so I'm going off of Wiki and my imagination for his attitude.**

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Gilbert was to meet the next leader of the country today. He was told to sit and to wait for the man's arrival, but he was not a man known for his patience. He was always on the move, talking with his "awesome citizens," admiring his beautiful lands, playing with the dogs, annoying Austria––_something_.

But right now he was not, and it was so _aggravating_. Gilbert began to fidget with his clothing, unbuttoning and buttoning his shirt, pulling his socks up higher, retying the laces on his shoes repeatedly. He grew bored of these things quickly, and switched to simply tapping his foot on the floor repeatedly. Eventually switching from a nonsense rhythm to his own anthem.

He wondered what the human will look like. Would he get along with this one? Would this one be as boring as Austria? Would he contribute to the growth of the great Preußen? Or would he be an incompetent fool that would only prove to be more irritating than Gilbert could ever imagine?

His foot eventually tired and he stopped, uncrossing and recrossing his legs in an attempt to get comfortable in the stiff wooden chair. Gilbert leaned his head back, closed his eyes and rested his hands in his lap. If the man wasn't coming any time soon, the least Gilbert could do was get some shut-eye.

Gilbert immediately regretted his decision when he woke up. His neck was stiff, people were staring at him, and he seemed to have been drooling––totally not an awesome first impression.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and glared haughtily at the people in the previously empty room. He sat up straighter, scratched at his head underneath his hat, and asked groggily, "So, which one of you is… Frederich?"

"That would be me." A man, with rosy cheeks and a smile on his face, stepped forward.

And he was absolutely _beautiful_. Capturing his eyes immediately, Gilbert struggled to maintain some sort of composure. The man was elegant and with an air of confidence that Gilbert found he just couldn't resist.

"Ah, good," Gilbert stood, adjusting his hat before offering the man his hand. "I am Gilbert Beilschmidt, more commonly known as Preußen."

He had met plenty of beautiful women in his years. Why would a man suddenly capture his interest? A man who's interests he would eventually learn reflect that of Austria's? Gilbert didn't like where this was going. As he shook the man's hand, something akin to a shock wave coursed through him. He was magnificent, his hopes for the country, his voice, his tender eyes that have seen much more than most men of his age.

He was gorgeous, and Gilbert couldn't stop himself from becoming increasingly enamored with him.

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Thankfully, Frederich was just as eager to get to know the personification of his home nation, as Gilbert was to get closer to him. They took long walks and talked about the state of the country, enemies, and other things among their love for the adrenaline rush that war was. They chattered, deep into the night, like mothers with their unending fuel of gossip.

Gilbert shared his history and conquests with Frederich, who listened, ever intently. Frederich, in turn, shared his childhood with Gilbert, after much poking and prodding by none other than Gilbert himself. And Gilbert knew, as he hung off every last word Frederich said, that he was becoming increasingly feminine as the days went by and his worthless crush intensified.

The same night Frederich was affectionately nicknamed "Old Fritz" by Gilbert (who refused, no matter how many times Frederich begged, to change it), Gilbert got up the courage to confess his growing adoration. Only managing to get as far as touching Frederich's hair, before Frederich blurted out his long held question.

"Are you cursed?"

It was a simple enough question, but, honestly, Gilbert was fairly sure he had been Preußen his whole life. He doesn't know anything besides being a nation. It's just the way things have been, are, and will always be. It's like asking a fish why they swim right-side up. Not that they'd answer you, or even pay attention to you, but you get it.

Frederich stared expectantly at him.

Gilbert smiled, his eyes, for once, soft as he replied quietly, "I think that I'm cured."

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However, Gilbert forgot to put into play the factor that he was not human, but Frederich was. He noticed the bags underneath the man's eyes, he noticed the laugh lines, the white in his hair, the increasing tiredness.

But age just made him all the more enchanting. He couldn't help himself when he began to get even closer to the man, using stupid excuses to touch his face, fix a clothing piece, tuck a stray hair away.

One night, he lingered with his fingers against Frederich's cheek, his eyes growing blurry as the shock of Frederich's age hit him. Frederich frowned, reaching up to move Gilbert's bangs out of his eyes.

"Gilbert…?" Gilbert pulled his hands back, tucking them between his legs.

They were sitting across from each other, a coffee table between the two respective men lounging on separate love seats. Frederich stood, slowly, watching and waiting. He made his way around the table, careful as to not knock over the inkwells set atop messily placed papers.

"Gilbert?" he asked again, unsure what to do as he watched the man duck his head and choke out a sob. He sat himself next to Gilbert, cautiously wrapping an arm around the personification of his country. He tried to gauge Gilbert's reaction, but found he was unable to, and simply went for what he thought would be best.

Gilbert stiffened in shock as his head was pressed tenderly against Frederich's chest. It was so intimate and quick, Gilbert nearly forgot how to breath, but continued to sniffle as the flood of tears came. He curled into the man's embrace, forgetting all of is dignity, as long as he could be close to Frederich.

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The next day, he awoke on the love seat, eyes embarrassingly red and puffy, and not quite sure how to face Frederich after his breakdown. When he eventually ran into the man, he began to apologize for the night before, but was quickly cut off.

"What are you talking about, Gilbert? All last night we finished the important papers and then retreated to our respective sleeping places." At first, Gilbert was shocked, trying to sort out if the thing last night was merely a dream.

Then, and Gilbert barely managed to catch it, Frederich winked at him before walking off.

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Gilbert, in all his years, hadn't ever had a human as a lover, and he didn't know whether he should begin to distance himself to save himself the hurt...or to use the time left to try to confess his infatuation. He didn't know how to react to a limited lifespan.

Fortunately–or unfortunately–he didn't need to get into a long debate with himself. It was like he was addicted. Gilbert had good intuition and, despite his lack of knowledge and experience, went along with only that as his guide, loving his human companion, without anything upfront or obvious, staying surprisingly shy about saying it aloud.

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Now, as he listened the decided judgement of himself in front of all the other nations, he began to wonder if, maybe, he'd finally be able to meet up with his Old Fritz again.

World War II was over, Prussia, as a nation, would cease to exist, his land was to be split up among others, and Gilbert could only imagine the pain that dissolving would be. He hoped it would be a quick sting, not some almost eternal agony, like being thrown inside a fire, or the horrid feeling of being drowned.

As he was being handcuffed, he began to think up all the gruesome ways he might disappear, and it made him undeniably excited. He threw back his head and whooped, startling the nations around him.

He is sure they deem him crazy, with his blood-red eyes, unruly silver-white hair, and ridiculously sharp canines that poked over his bottom lip when he grinned. He wondered vaguely if it may be the smirk that makes him so over the top.

Or maybe it was when he screamed at the ceiling, "Hey, old man up there, your favorite nation is coming to see ya _real _soon. Don't worry, Ol' Fritz," and as he dropped the volume of his voice everyone in the room stared at him with cautious eyes and trembling hands, "I'm coming." He finished, beginning to laugh again as they hauled him off, but before he was taken from the room, he yelled over his shoulder to his brother, "Don't forget, West, your big brother always loved you, despite your rigid attitude!"

As they pushed him farther out the door, he smirked, thoroughly pleased with himself.

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"Gilbert?" Frederich asked, a slur decorating the name. Young, drunk, giddy, and having just won a long, difficult battle, they chose to lay underneath the stars with grass as their blanket.

Gilbert turned his head to the side. Raising his eyebrow, when he noticed Frederich moved to a sitting position, a silly grin on his face, staring at Gilbert over his shoulder. Gilbert copied the action, sighing heavily as his head spun ever so slightly.

"Old Fritz?" he asked, grinning his own. Frederich's grin drooped, but he didn't say anything, he just thought and stared. Gilbert eventually grew impatient. "What?"

"What do you suppose death is like?"

"I...I can't quite imagine," Gilbert muttered, the new tone of conversation making him grow awkward. He ducked his head to pluck at the grass.

Gilbert felt Frederich's eyes still on him, and when he looked up, he saw a look of curiosity flash briefly over the man's face.

"Are you cursed?" He asked, his question making a strange feeling of déjà vu rush through Gilbert.

He attempted to sort through his thoughts, but settled for a simple, "I think that I'm cured," and before Gilbert knew what he was doing, he cradled the man's face in his hands before pressing his lips to the other's, hoping to distract him from his inquiries about Gilbert's lack of certain human attributes.

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**A/N:**

******I am… **_**indifferent**_** to this pairing, but when I heard this song, I **_**had**_** to. Go look at the lyrics, you'll know what I mean.**

**I noticed that at certain parts, I changed tense, and when I went back to change it...it got kind of awkward sounding. Sorry 'bout that. D': And sorry if I missed anything when changing it.**

**Love it, hate it? Don't forget to let me know with a review!**


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